Jeremy stirred uncomfortably at the prospect of filling another man's boots, for the calm contempt in Caroline's lovely eyes was disturbing. "Your Grace need fear neither my sobriety nor my loyalty," he murmured, and unconsciously ran his hand through his thick brown hair.
"Then we shall say no more about it." The imperiousness seemed to melt out of Caroline. She lifted a small bell from a table beside her with long, tapering fingers, and when a servant appeared in the doorframe she directed, "Ask Lord Murray to attend us, please." Her attention turned back to Jeremy, and the dimple appeared in her cheek once more. "After my little sermon. Master Bartlett, would you think it unfair if we seal our agreement with a small glass?"
Jeremy could not be sure if she was serious or if she was mocking him impishly. He decided to take no chances; it was suddenly of great importance to him that Caroline of Glasgow thought well of him. "I have no need for spirits in Your Grace's presence," he declared gallantly, then continued even more boldly, "The prospect of seeing Your Grace over an extended period of time is more than sufficient exhilaration for one evening."
Caroline's brows rose again, but there was a distinct twinkle in her eyes. "Those who reported you to me were somewhat less than thorough. Master Bartlett," she said softly. "They gave me no inkling that you were of a Cavalier bent of mind or that you were a disciple of the Cavalier poets."
Jeremy rose quickly to the situation. Grinning almost impudently, he quoted:
"No fairer flower has e'er her petals opened wide, No night star shines so radiantly, oh Heaven's bride.'*
For the first time the Duchess seemed to become aware of him as a man. She leaned forward slightly in her chair, her eyes fastened on Jeremy's, her lips parted, and there was a faint increase in the speed of her breathing. Jeremy's head began to throb and he returned her gaze unblinkingly. For the first time since he had entered the room he felt himself on an equal footing with this fascinating, lovely, and powerful woman.
At that instant a newcomer strode into the room. He was a small, wiry young man wearing a glossy powdered wig and a cream-colored suit of stiff satin. A diamond-and-ruby ring flashed on the hand that rested elegantly on the golden hilt of a ceremonial sword, and diamonds twinkled on the buckles of his shoes. To compensate for his lack of height, the soles of his pumps were an inch thick, and two-inch red heels gave him even greater stature. He would have been handsome had it not been for a small purple birthmark that began at his right temple and extended, crescent-shaped, in a curve around his eye to the bridge of his nose.
His features were thin, his nose straight, and his lips firm. Yet despite his gaudy attire there was nothing feline about him; anyone meeting the steady look in his gray eyes knew that here was a man. He advanced straight to Caroline, bowed civilly, and stood erect again. At no time did he look at Jeremy.
The Duchess favored the man with a blinding smile. "Lord Murray," she said, "I present Master Terence Bartlett."
"Your servant, sir." The Scottish noble's eyes showed a spark of real interest. The name of Terence Bartlett was not unknown to him, then, and he had some notion of why this colonial stranger was here.
"I am honored, milord." Jeremy measured his own bow by the depth of the other's.
"He has accepted your offer, Your Grace?"
"He has, Thomas. And I have asked you here not only to meet him, but to bind our bargain. Will you be kind enough to pay him ten guineas, please?" Caroline spoke lightly, airily, as though a discussion of money was something so beneath her that it should be dismissed as rapidly and unobtrusively as possible.
Jeremy was elated, for if he was to continue with the masquerade as Terence Bartlett, he would certainly need funds at once. Nevertheless, he felt it necessary to protest, as any true gentleman would do. "There is no need to reduce this transaction to a mercenary level, Your Grace," he protested. "Surely the funds can wait."
"Nonsense!" Caroline waved her slim hand airily. "There are those in the family who claim that the word of a Stuart is enough to bind any bargain, but I say that a business arrangement is a business arrangement. You'll receive your next payment when the Bonnie Maid strikes land at Jamaica, and the remainder when your service to me is ended. We shall sail with the afternoon tide three days hence, Master Bartlett, and I shall expect you on board at least an hour before that time."
"I'll be there, Your Grace." Jeremy sensed that the interview was coming to an end.
The Duchess held out her hand to him, and her skin was cool and smooth. "I trust we will come to know each other better in the days ahead, Master Bartlett," she said, and though her eyes seemed frank and open, her tone was faintly mocking. "The long journey to the Indies promises to be interesting."
Two candles flickered, then flared again in their sockets, and the roughhewn boards of knotted pine stood out in bold relief. The furniture was plain, cheap, and drab: a small table stood in one comer, and on it was a pitcher of water; an unpainted, crude highboy leaned dispiritedly against the wall next to a window covered with thick oiled paper; the greater part of the chamber was filled with a huge, sagging bed, and on it Jeremy Stone lay sprawled, his clasped hands pillowing his head. He ignored the rhythmic protesting squeaks of the sagging floor boards as Dirk Friendly paced up and down the length of the little cell, his long legs covering the distance in four strides each way.
''I tell ye, Jerry—ye're daft! Ye're mad, mad as the loonies, and ye should be locked in chains with the rest of 'em in the old bear pits over on Amsterdam Way! Ye'll end in prison, and they'll keep ye there for the next fifty year! Ye can't go play-actin', makin' off like ye're someone ye're not, 'specially when ye're a-dealin' with such high-quality folk like the Duchess o' Glaskie. Use what little head ye got left, Jerry! That there Duchess is kinfolk t' Queen Mary, that's who! I c'n see her 'n' King Willum a-haulin' ye afore their throne, roastin' yer hide proper, 'n' then sendin' ye off t' the Tower o' Lunnon 'n' choppin' off yer damn-fool head from that there skinny neck it's a-hangin' from. And that ain't all. I c'n see my head on a pike right next. Yuh. 'N' folks who knew me'll say, That there was Dirk Friendly. Don't he look nat'ral, now?' That ain't how I want t' look. I aim t' keep lookin' nat'ral as I do right now, with my head 'n' my body joined t'gether properlike."
Jeremy feigned a yawn. "Are you all through talking, Dirk?" He pursed his lips together and began to whistle a Highland marching song.
"No, I ain't through, and well ye know it! I been tellin* ye for years that yer ambition would be the death o' ye someday, and now ye're a-tixin' t' make it the death o' me too."
Propping himself on one elbow, Jeremy scowled, and the humor left his eyes. "What do you call the life we have now, Dirk? We'd be better off dead, and make no mistake about it. After seven years of bullying and starvation we've been made journeymen! That's wonderful, that is! We're living in luxury now, aren't we? Can't you get it into that thick skull of yours that it will be another ten years before we'll even qualify as master gunsmiths? And even then we'll have to stay on with old Smith, unless we want to go off somewhere and start a foundry of our own. Yes, and that would be impossible, for it would cost more money than we'll ever see as journeymen to buy forges and build furnaces and import the molds and equipment we'd need. My mind is made up, Dirk. I'm taking the gamble of impersonating Terence Bartlett, and that's final. If you're with me, there's nothing I'd like better. If not, I'll bid you good-by."